Students of Brutality
by Ch33rio
Summary: The announcement that two tributes can win the 74th annual Hunger Games is not made for Katniss and Peeta alone. The capitol audience is enthralled by two of the most vicious Career Tributes they've ever seen. Cato and Clove take front stage.
1. The Last Training

Reaping day in District Two is more important than Christmas. It is the only day that offers up eternal glory like a bag of Capitol candy before the youth of our district. And we all want it. So, so bad. But I can assure you; nobody wants it more than me.

I wake up, mummified by my sheets, at four in the morning like I've done every reaping since I was twelve. My heart's racing like I've just run to the nearest village and back. There would be no need to this morning anyways. The people who are usually up at the granite mines in the mountains are all in town now. Most of them come down because they're required to bring their children, but they're not nervous. None of the miner's brats would ever be lucky enough to represent our district to the Capitol. We have proper pride here in District Two, unlike so many of the others. We only send winners.

Unfortunately, most of these stragglers have set up camp around our neighborhood on the outside edge of town. The few hotels that line the nice part of Main Street have been booked ages ago by rich Capitol people. District Two is one of the most exciting places to be before the games, and lots of people like to make a vacation of it before the real fun begins.

I groan and roll over to my bedside table to grab my backpack. Trying to go back to sleep would be utterly pointless. Four years worth of reaping days have taught me that much. I throw on my sneakers and grab a jacket before slipping into the kitchen and scrawling a note in my barely discernable handwriting:

_Mum,  
__ Off to the Academy. Don't worry.  
__ I'll be back in time for a shower before Reaping.  
__ Pick something out for me. You know I don't do fashion.  
__Clove_

From the door I aim a dull butter knife from the wall at the note. I throw it with enough force to drive the hilt into the table. My arms shake a little bit. Goes to show that I'm too excited to be holed up in my house. If I stayed, I'd end up breaking things out of nerves and then my mother would kick me out anyways. But I know she'll worry if I just disappear without warning.

Even though it's mid-summer, the mornings are freezing. I decide to run part of the way to get the blood moving through my icy fingers. Though it's dark as hell, I've trekked this way so many times, I could probably make it while knocked out cold. The Academy is about three miles from my house in town, and technically outside of the boundaries. Although every idiot knows that certain districts do train for the Games, it's still not a great idea to flaunt it in front of the Capitol. The place where we train used to be called the Garden of the Gods. We thought it was fitting to retain the name. Our Tributes become Gods once they win.

When I reach the edge of town, I'm sweating and out of breath, but still pleased. I made it in record time and it doesn't look like anyone else is committed enough to be practicing at this hour. I look around surreptitiously to make sure no one is watching me before drawing my id badges and flashing them before a fence post. It slides away silently, recognizing me as a student.

Most fences here aren't electric, like the other districts because we supported the Capitol during the rebellion. We keep them around the towns and villages to keep away wild animals or any stray muttations that escapes the labs. Being the closest district to the Capitol, we're the ones who experience the most horrific effects if any of their mad experiments go wrong.

But here at the Academy we always keep the fence around the Garden electrified. We're not terribly fond of visitors.

From the entrance where I'm standing, it's impossible to see that the Academy is any more than a collection of magnificent rocks. In the coming pre-dawn light they all take on a beautiful, rosy color, with vines and wild flowers growing up the side. It's an ironic disguise of peace, because this is the place where children become killers. No one can see the entrances to any of the classrooms and mock-arenas that are concealed behind or within the boulders.

I make my way passed the survival and strategy classrooms without bothering. I'm not here for instruction now. On days off, the trainers aren't even awake back in town, or in the hidden bungalows further up in the woods. I scoff as I peak at the top of a hill that overlooks a giant amphitheatre. Only students who've failed to go to the arena become trainers. It means that they were good – but they were not good enough.

That will never be me. No one believes that I will make it to the Capitol, considering my lineage and history, but all that will change today. I'm going to be a hero.

At the edge of the amphitheatre was a shed full of the deadliest weapons imaginable – at least the deadliest weapons that were allowed in the arena. Guns, for example, were not. They killed way too quickly, which defeats the purpose. The Games were invented to entertain the Capitol. I didn't waste any time with the bulky shields and swords, but go straight to the shelves with my favorite weapons.

Knives. Of all different sizes. The biggest being almost the length of my arm, the smallest about the size of my thumb. They wouldn't be much to look at unless they were in the hands of an expert. I pick up my favorite one and balance it in my throwing hand. A thrill of power and cruelty rushes through my head and I had cling to the shed for a just moment to steady myself.

"Easy, Garlic. Playing with such heavy weapons isn't a smart idea for a girl of your size. Especially this early in the morning."

The voice startles me. I instinctively whip around and hurtle my knife towards the threat. It's easily deflected away by a slash of his sword. Cato Hummel stands in the middle of the arena leering down at me, like I'm an easy target. He laughs. "Testy, aren't you? Usually you think before you throw."

I'm furious that Cato snuck up on me like that. But I'm also angry that someone else got to the training ring before I did. "What the hell are you doing, Hummel?"

"I'm disemboweling dummies." He gestures over his massive shoulders towards several plastic bodies that look like they have been minced. He leans lightly on his sword. "Getting rid of my nerves in a _healthy_ way."

"Nervous?" I sneer before realizing that he's trying to insult me. I feel my blood boiling, and my ears slowly turning red. "What are you saying?"

"Well, I've never tried to murder a fellow student before 8 am before." He grins at me in a slightly maniacal way as if hoping that I lose my temper and give him some reason to come after me.

I take a huge breath, shrug and go back to picking out my knives. I will not let him ruin my day. My glory day. "Well, I guess that means I beat your record." It's an underhanded jab at his pride. Cato hates being beat at anything.

But he doesn't seem too perturbed. "Maybe," he says, "but you haven't actually succeeded, so I have you there."

"Keep talking and I'll tie you for that one," I say before storming off to the opposite side of the arena. I've hit the first dummy square in the heart before I realize that he's followed me.

"Too bad you aren't able to volunteer this year, Clove," He whispers in my ear. He knows that I'm only fifteen and you are not allowed to step up until you've turned sixteen. And if you know what's good, you don't question Academy rules. "I hear the Capitol has great food. You might be able to pick up some tips to help your mother in the kitchen. But, on second thought, that wouldn't help much because you'd be dead before you could bring them back to her."

My heart pounds so loud in my ears that I can barely hear anything. I launch another attack at a dummy near the other side of the amphitheatre and my knife lodges in its stomach. I imagine that it was Cato that I hit instead. Any other day I would have ripped his fat head off his shoulders, but not today.

He doesn't know the measures I've taken to make sure I get to the Capitol. Not for cooking tips. For victory. For the glory that will return my family to honor. And for me. To prove that I am not weak like my father.

Because I'm not. I am strong. I'm stronger than any other students here at the Academy. And I am going to win the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

Cato is waiting for me to react, I know. But I just turn and lovingly caress my knife. He's standing very close to me and I have to look up to smile at him. I know have a wicked glint in my eye because for a moment his arrogant sneer flickers and he takes a half-step back from me. Somehow he knows that he's crossed the invisible line between my anger and wrath. "See you around, Garlic breath."

I say nothing before returning to my work. The sun peaks over some far off district, shining gloriously down on my day of triumph. Cato doesn't bother me again. I don't notice when he slips out of the training arena and I'm left by myself.


	2. Reaping Day

**Thanks, guys for all the support! I'd be happy to answer questions, or have some constructive criticism. **

**Lots of love, Maddi**

_Characters belong to Suzanne Collins._

* * *

The moment I step past the gate I realize that I should have grabbed my sword outside.

_BANG!_

I roll sideways to avoid a trap that would have launched me into a Poisonous Pine Tree. The needles would have killed me slowly. And painfully. And there's no cure.

Immediately, I dodge some booby traps worked into the seemingly pleasant drive leading up to the front door. I'm about three feet from the threshold when I freeze. I've just noticed a crossbow hidden on top of the roof. Looking around, I notice that there are a few more hidden around the yard. One in the branches of the Pine. Another inside the replica of the Fountain of Youth.

There's no way I can make it passed without at least one arrow hitting its mark. My mind is working furiously. I know I can't stay in one place for to long or else some other crazy weapon is going to –

A searing pain leaps up my leg as I feel razor sharp teeth enter my calf. Apparently some of the mad coyotes have been released from their cages. I can hear the yips of the others behind me.

I rip the beast off of my leg by the neck. The move itself is enough to kill it. I sling it over my head and shoulder and then charge the door. I hear twangs of the bowstrings and feel the arrows enter the beast. Then silence. I've passed out of the line of fire into safety.

I'm standing on the threshold of Life and Death. And by that, I mean my home. I probably have a better chance at survival if I stay outside.

For a moment, I consider going back through my death trap of a front yard to the Garden of the Gods and showing up at the Reaping in my uniform. But I dismiss the thought almost immediately. Many of my future sponsors will be attending in person, or watching the District Reaping intently. First impressions are very important. Somehow, I'm not sure they'd be impressed if I showed up in my sweat suit.

So, despite my better judgment, I push open the door and step inside.

"Sloppy!"

The deep voice echoes disapprovingly across the entrance hall from the living room. Of course my dad would have been watching. He's sitting in his throne by the window, leering at me over some sort of paper. Probably information on the latest way to kill houseguests. His tone makes my blood boil. "You can't give me one day off?" I shout. "I'm going to have to volunteer with a shitty leg!"

My dad shrugs and turns his attention back to the paper in hand. "It's not my fault you're weak. If you can't survive the fight to the door, you'll never make it in the arena."

I swallow an angry retort, feeling the bile rise up in my mouth. It is completely pointless to argue with this man, anyways. Instead, I slam my fist into the wall behind me. The large hole is satisfying, but the outraged cry of my father is even more so. I don't even care. This is the last day I'll ever have to deal with him and his insanity.

I storm up the stairs, ignoring the shouts following me from the living room. I doubt my dad would be incensed enough to get out of his chair. I'm almost to the safety of my room when I smash into a mass of screaming, flying hair, and flailing limbs. Apparently my mother isn't much happier with me than my dad.

She takes just enough time to disentangle the dead coyote from my shoulders before resuming her attack. "You stupid boy! You've killed him!"

"The damn thing tried to eat my leg for breakfast!" I do my best to defend myself, which means slamming her against the wall. Such a move is not considered disrespectful in our household.

She falls down beside the dead animal, dazed for a moment, before picking it up and yanking arrows out of its bloody fur. "The _point_, Cato Maximus, is to divert the attack. You _use_ creatures. You don't kill them." She fixes me with a glare almost as wild as the animals she looked after. "Kronos knew how to handle these things. That's how he won."

Again, my blood rushes to my head. I honestly have to resist the urge to snap her neck just like I did to the coyote she's trying to revive. Ever since Kronos won, he has constantly overshadowed me. What my mother said is true. The only reason he won was because of his strange ability to use the capitol's inventions for his own gain. He is weak compared to me. I don't need animals to kill for me. I do it myself.

I sidestep my mother and slam the door to my room.

Ugh. This is why I hate coming home.

I am what people at the Academy call a legacy. My parents were both victors. I have three grandparents who've won. And then there's Kronos. My path has been set in stone since birth.

I love it. There's nothing that I enjoy more than driving a sword into flesh and watching the shreds life trickle away.

This year is finally my year. I'm going to become the most memorable victor Panem has ever seen.

* * *

The Academy students always stand at the back of their age groups. You can tell who we are by sight. We're about twice the size of normal kids our age. We have the characteristic gleam of cruelty in our eyes. We are the masters of death. The children of the mines stand in the front looking skinny and nervous. Luckily, the cameras seem to gravitate towards us and not them. Confidence, cruelty, and arrogant excitement always invite attention.

The atmosphere is celebratory. The streets all around the city square are teeming with people. Colorful banners, cakes and fancy trinkets line all the shop windows. Our District takes advantage of Capitol tourism during this special time each year. The parents of the Students are closest to the pens. Their eyes are wild and almost as excited as their children's.

On raised platforms over the Justice Building and at the Mayor's house, sit scores of potential sponsors, with their strangely dyed skin and intricate hair. Most of them jovially talk to one another or point out a handful of unlucky children to bet on.

I watch as the remainder of the children file into the corals. The mayor enters and waddles over to one of the four velvet seats. I swear the only thing that bastard does is eat and sleep. He has earned no respect in District 2. I wouldn't be surprised if he somehow dropped dead with a knife in his back and one of the Victors took his job.

I can tell that many of them are glaring or sneering at the back of his head from their seats which line the back of the stage. The most important victors, the ones most often chosen as mentors, sit in more visible spots closer to the cameras. My parents are much further to the front than my grandparents who sit further back. Most people have forgotten them already. My brother sits even further back, as he had not yet been chosen as a mentor. I scoff to myself. No one in their right mind would ever choose him to get them sponsors. He's about as good with people as I one of my mother's coyotes.

There are three empty seats next to the massive space occupied by the mayor. The mentors will occupy two of them once they are chosen. That is one thing we tributes are allowed to choose ourselves. Everything else is chosen for us. The final seat is reserved for our escort, Barnaby Calhoun. It won't be occupied until the show begins. Barnaby always liked having his dramatic entrances.

Above the stage, a huge screen blocks the ugly concrete of the Justice Building. The camera shots of our faces that have been flashing across it for about an hour are suddenly replaced with giant numbers, counting down seconds to live time.

_Ten. _

_Nine. _

_Eight._

An excited cheer rises from the crowd, and then settles into silence. The hair stands up straight on the back of my neck and a shiver runs through me.

_Three. _

_Two._

_One._

"Weeeeeeeelllllcome to the 74th Annual Hunger Games!"

Barnaby Calhoun's voice rings out slow and quiet at the beginning and rises to a shout at the end. Showers of sparks illuminate the stage, as Barnaby appears straight out of the floor. He grins and waves at the crowd who is going crazy with excitement. None of the children move at all.

Apparently those fools in the Capitol have decided that clashing has come into style this year. It's hard to even look at Barnaby straight on because his orange pinstripe suit looks marvelously dreadful with his red hair and beard. God, these Capitol people disgust me. But, no matter. He's done a great job keeping District 2's tourism up, so we can't fault him for that.

Barnaby waves his hand to calm the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games, District Two, and my the odds," he turns to address the corral where the children are standing, "be _ever_ in your favor!

"Before we get started with the reaping, we must acknowledge some of the _wonderful _and _generous_ people who have made this day possible, and recognize the past Victors of our great district. Sponsors and Victors, we salute you!" The cameras briefly glaze over the Victors before fixing intently on the Capitol Tourists. Those paid extensive amounts of money for this television time. Barnaby spends quite some time explaining and thanking them for making this day so wonderful.

I'm extremely bored. The reaping ceremony should take about ten minutes, but somehow, Barnaby makes it last two hours. My eyes wander over the girl's section of the enclosure and I make eye contact with my partner, Isis. She's spawn of the Victor's Village too. We've been training together since our parents enrolled us in the Academy years ago. She and I are about equally talented, so the trainers would always pair us together. Some days I would win, some days she would. We're always at each other's throats during any competition. At other times, we maintain a cool, and somewhat pleasant interaction. She knows me better than anyone else in this town. We might have even been friends, if we weren't constantly thinking of how to kill each other.

Isis rolls her eyes and shakes some long, dark hair out of her face in contempt. I know that she hates this as much as I do. She just wants to get on with the ceremony so that we can be done with it and get to the Capitol.

Reapings are usually uneventful in District Two. All the fun is in the few weeks before. At the Academy, the entire month is devoted to training up the "elite" students. That's what they call anyone who has a chance at volunteering, although a few younger kids train with us, too, if they excel above their peers. We all get private tutoring sessions, and a select few get to choose a mentor early.

The last week, we have one giant tournament of all the students above sixteen to determine the lucky winner. One boy and one girl. Last year, I opted out because Isis was only fifteen. I could have taken it and won the tournament _and _the games, but the only way Isis and I would find out who was really the best would be in the context of the games. This year we obliterated the competition.

"And _now_, time to determine our tributes from District Two!" Barnaby's voice pulls me back to reality. "This year, gentlemen first!" We switch off every year. Odd years, girls, even years, boys. Barnaby reaches his hand into the emptier of the two glass balls and pulls out a small slip of paper. "Jason Prewitt!"

Before the boy gets past the gate, I burst out of my spot at the back of the corral, my heart beating in my ears. "I volunteer as tribute!" Jason cowers back as I barrel past him. Damn miner's brats.

"Ohho!" Says Barnaby, sizing me up. Compared to him, I am a monster. I grin confidently up at the sponsors. "What's your name, son?"

"Cato Hummel."

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have our first tribute! Now for the ladies…"

He walks over to the second reaping ball. For some reason, it seems much more crammed with paper from this side of the stage. Barnaby rams his hand in and, with difficulty extracts another slip of paper. My blood is still racing through my veins fast enough to drown out the selection.

"My name is Isis Scott! I volunteer!" shouts Isis, and she clambers up beside me.

A voice from the crowd surprises both of us. Low, but confidant, "I challenge the volunteer to retain my right as the reaped tribute to represent District Two!"

Isis and I both stare baffled at the small, freckled girl, calmly walking calmly up to the stage. Every eye is fixed on her. The shocked silence that followed her challenge is broken by a murmur of excitement and curiosity, She has completely stolen the attention of Panem in this moment.

It's Clove Finke. Garlic. The little girl that I take such delight in tormenting over her small stature and lack of any impressive lineage. The girl who was too young to compete in the Academy tournament, but might be smart enough to think up another way to get in to the Arena.

I shrug my shoulders. Isis will just beat her like she beat the rest.

But a part of me wonders. Maybe Clove has something that I've overlooked. I mean, she has been training with the elites for two years now, kept her head down and snuck up out of nowhere. Isis is a killing machine. Clove is smart.

And she's just made this year's Hunger Games much more interesting than it's ever been before.


	3. The Challenge

**I've decided to keep y'all updated on stuff up here as so many do.**

**Firstly, I love and appreciate all the favorites and comments. Please feel free to give me constructive criticism. This is my first fan-fiction that I've actually written out, so it may not be the best. But you know what they say: practice, practice, practice! I'm trying to develop Cato and Clove the way Suzanne Collins would have. **

**Let me know how I'm doing!**

**Love, Maddi**

_All the Characters and Ideas belong to Suzanne Collins._

* * *

"Are you _mental?"_

I roll my eyes and lean back against a plush velvet chair. After I defied her as volunteer, Isis and I were ushered into two separate rooms and allowed to confer with a mentor of our choice before entering the challenge course the judges are setting up for us.

Currently, my mentor pacing around the room like a cat. Her mousy hair flutters limply around her shoulders, but her eyes look like burning coals. Isodele and I were paired as a mentor/tribute in the traditional fashion when I became an Elite three years ago at the Academy. Trainers assess the students and then pair them with victors who have the most complementary skills.

Isodele won the games at fifteen. She's like me in that she's smart, quick, and slight. She never stood a chance in hand-to-hand combat. She won by her cunning. She is smart. It drives her crazy that I am just a little bit smarter than her, and I rarely share my ideas before I execute them. But at least I give her something to work with.

Right now, Isodele shows no sign of slowing down. "Every other kid I've worked with has some inkling of common sense. And then they gave me _you_! I refuse to mentor someone who is completely unstable. If you fail at this challenge, the Academy will ban you from volunteering in _any_ future games. Your career is _finished._"

I'm really tired of her. She's supposed to be helping me. I jump off my chair and face her. "I'm the same age you were when you won the games," I say as calmly as I can, though I'm really tempted to scream. "I'm not going to get any better than I am now. Why wait?"

Isodele seems scandalized. "You'll be bigger and stronger and wiser."

"Listen, I know what I'm doing. I need to make an impression on my sponsors. I can do that best without drawing too much attention to myself _now. _I've been watching Isis train for the last three years. She's brutal, but she's got no brains. I know I can beat her." I take a step closer to her, "I am going to the arena this year. You can either help me or not. Your choice."

There's a short silence as Isodele just stares into my eyes. She's deciding if she wants to laugh or to punch me, I can tell, which makes me mad. She should know by know that when I set my mind to something, it gets done, whether or not she supports me. I can do things on my own.

Finally, she just nods and walks over to a little table that has a small map of the obstacle course. I follow her over, taking it as a sign that she's agreed to help me.

"The trainers, along with several Capitol sponsors have been elected as a panel of judges." I doubt they've been elected. The trainers have an intricate and brutal hierarchy. The Capitol men just buy their way on. "They will be assessing both of you in five different categories.

"These," she points at two blue dots at opposite corners of the enclosure, "are the bunkers where you two will start. And this," she points at a red dot in the middle, "is your goal. The first to finish the task wins."

Immediately, my brain clicks into overdrive. "What sorts of obstacles – "

"The judges, however," she says, talking over me, "make the final decision as to who represents District Two in the arena." She stares at me with those cold, black eyes. "What is your strategy, Clove?"

It takes a moment for me to understand what she's trying to tell me. My goal is not to win. My goal is to beat Isis.

* * *

The two of us are brought out and paraded before the people of District Two as soon as the challenge course is ready. Barnaby Calhoun is absolutely thrilled to have more airtime this year. You can tell by the way he bounces on his toes and brushes back his stupid red hair. "Laaaadies and Gentlemen," he booms over the loudspeakers, "please give a hand to the fourth _ever_ challenge contenders! Clove Finke, reaped tribute, and Isis Gemmel, volunteer. Contestants, shake hands!"

Isis, who probably weighs twice as much as I do, immediately tries to crush my fingers. "I will kill you, little girl," she croons in my ear, "if you get in my way."

I raise my eyebrows and dig my fingernails into the back of her hand. I'm satisfied to feel a trickle of blood roll out from under my nails. Surprised, she releases her iron grip. Her eyes warn that she won't forgive me for that. Good. The angrier she is, the better.

Barnaby is completely oblivious to our hostile interaction. "Alright! Well, I am to give you instructions from the judges before you head off to the woods!" He clears his throat and pulls out a fancy sheet of paper from his pocket. "_You will find your goal on high and low grounds,_" he quotes in a voice that is supposed to sound deep and mysterious. "_The first to tame what you find wins. You have one hour from the moment you step off your hovercraft. May the odds be ever in your favor._"

Looking pleased with himself, Barnaby grins at us before shooing us into some high-quality hovercrafts that are to take Isis and I to our different bunkers. I can tell that he's anxious to get rid of us because he is bursting to tell the crowd all the hidden traps and dangers of the course. "Good luck to the contestants!"

There are no windows in the hovercraft so it barely feels like we're even moving. There's no noise at all, but the slow whirring of the engine. Isodele is sitting across the table staring at me. I think she's sizing me up, deciding what to do with me. I cross my arms and glare back at her. I have nothing to say, but I'm not going to let my gaze wander around. It feels like weakness to back down from her steady gaze.

We're quite until just before we land. She leans forward with a silent intensity. "Get there first and you'll be fine." If this is all she had to tell me, then I knew it already. I make a move to head towards the door but she reaches out and seizes my wrist to hold me there. "If you don't win this, Clove, I won't be the only one out for your blood. The Academy is not the place to mess around or make rash decisions."

"I know what I'm doing, ok?"

She takes a calming breath, and I can tell she's trying hard not to shout. "You misunderstand me. If you don't win today, someone from the Academy will find a way to kill you. If you do win today, someone will probably kill you in the arena. One way or another, you signed your life away when you challenged the tribute this morning."

I understand her. It doesn't scare me to know this. If anything is only strengthens my resolve. The life I'm living is not one that I much care for – in the shadow of my father's shame on the edges of society. Because of him, I have little chance of actually being chosen by the Academy to volunteer in the next few years. I know I can do this. "Now, your only way to get out of hell is to go through it."

"Ok." I say. I'm not blowing her off this time. Isodele seems satisfied that I don't argue and releases my arm. She knows by now that I am hard to intimidate. She's merciless on me because I am a fighter. It's the only way to get through to me. The door opens and I catch one last nod from my mentor before I am blinded by the bright sunlight.

The clock starts ticking as soon as I get off my hovercraft. Isis and I have been released at the same time. I know the first thing she's going to do is to charge into the bunker and grab her favorite weapons.

My eyes scan my surroundings. As far as I can see, a fence lines the edge of the enclosure behind me before running perpendicularly up the slope of a steep mountain. I am currently trapped at the base of a huge alluvial fan, which must have been washed out during some flash flood. I can barely see the shimmer of a river flowing from a thick grove of trees that cover the middle of the course. Above that, the trees thin out quite suddenly to a snow capped peak. Even with the warm summers, the tips of the Rockies are always covered with snow.

I draw my attention back to the rocks. I will have to climb up out of them to make it to the middle of the course, where Isodele told me my quarry would be. I think back to the instructions Barnaby Calhoun gave us. _On high and low grounds_… I doubt that there was any real riddle concealed in that. Creativity is not our strongest asset in District 2. It was only a hint of what the course would look like. One of us would start from the top of the mountain. One would start from the bottom.

From where I'm standing, I got the short end of the stick. I will have to fight my way up the hill. It's not fair, but I never expected the Trainers to take it easy on me. At the Academy, there's no concept of fairness. You must fight tooth and nail for your place in the school. I can tell this is punishment for challenging their system of choosing the tributes. If I want to go to the arena, I'm going to have to earn it big time.

There's an upside to having a disadvantage, though. If I can beat Isis, they will have no choice but to send me to the Games. It will prove beyond all doubt that I am a better choice than she is.

With a victorious smile, I head into my own bunker, which is standing a few yards away from me. I give a little yelp as I open the door and peer inside. It is filled to the brim with supplies; something like the Cornucopias in the arena. But this bunker is tailored to fit my needs precisely. Lining the walls are more knives than I've ever seen in my entire life. They are every shape and size, gleaming in the reflected sunlight. I let out a sigh of longing. If only I could take them all with me! If only Isis were here now, I would slice her open in a moment and be done with it!

But I control myself. I'm not trying to kill her. No one would let me go to the arena if I killed her here. Outside of the Hunger Games, murder is frowned upon by the Capitol. How ironic. I focus my attention away from the beautiful knives on the wall that are calling my name. I have to pick things that are going to help me get to the middle ground.

I pick a green camouflage backpack off a shelf that looks light but sturdy and begin stuffing it with supplies. Water. A rope. Carabineers. Chalk. Climbing gloves. A sling. Flashlight. A survival aid package that was probably from the Capitol. I'm satisfied for now. It's only an hour. My bag is light enough, so I return my attention to the knives. I wrap several standard knives to my pack to use for later. To my delight, I see a handy vest with places to hide weapons. I fit a few more specialized knives in there and slip one down my boot. I'm ready.

Scrambling over the boulders, it doesn't take me very long to realize that I'm too heavy. The pack is slowing me down and, with the vest, I'm twice as bulky as I'd be otherwise. The boulders I'm climbing up are slick. Some moss is growing on them, and they have very few handholds. I've probably used up a quarter of my time, already, and I have to get to the goal before Isis does. I look behind me and realize that I've only gone a few hundred yards from the bunker.

In frustration, I tear the bag and vest off my back. _Ok, Clove, time to think._ _ What's really essential?_ I sling the rope over my head and shoulders and then down my water. The only things left that I truly need is my weapons. The vest is too heavy for me, so I reinvent it. I'm sure the leatherworker who assembled it is horrified. It was a beautiful vest. Now, it's a functional belt.

Carelessly, I toss the remains of my backpack into a crevice behind me. I realize my mistake a moment too late. An enraged roar sounds from behind me. Oops.

I see a snout poke out of the hole, and that's all it takes to send me straight up the side of the nearest boulder. It's the most common muttation for our immediate area. They call it a Snoutlouger. A disgusting name for a disgusting creature. It is a hybrid of wild hog and a badger. The Capitol was interested in the protective and brutal nature of both of those creatures. They planted them all around the Capitol to set upon and kill anything that could threaten their home. They're very dangerous with their mammoth tusks and claws the size of a tiger's. It was a pretty effective first line of defense against the rebels. Those things breed like rabbits and have insane family loyalty. Wherever there's one, there are at least twenty others.

It's a good thing I got a tiny head start, because I see more of them immerging from their dens. I kill the Snoutlouger nearest me in hopes that the others will get confused by the smell of blood, or stop to help their fallen comrade. I don't have enough knives on me to kill them all at once.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the glint of the sun reflecting off of the river. Immediately, I change my course and charge for it. Although Snoutlougers are vicious, they rely totally on their noses. They have no brains, sense of hearing, or vision at all.

Once I'm in the water, I hear them all fall behind me, as they lose my trail. Going uphill in the stream takes far less time, though it's much more dangerous. The boulders in the water are covered in algae and there are several foot-sized holes between them. One wrong step, and I am a goner. The current is fast enough to push my whole body under and drown me. My balance has always been perfect, though. I see the traps Mother Nature has set for me long before I reach them.

As I near the forest, I realize that the banks of my stream, once covered by boulders, are now turning into sheer rock. The stream cuts through the cliff easily, but causes a dilemma for me. My prey is at the top of the middle ground, on one side of the chasm or the other. North or South.

I can feel the clock ticking in my head. Isis might be at the platform already. Getting up the cliff will not be a problem, but it will take too much time for me to climb back down and get to the other side if it turns out I need to be on the opposite bank. The canyon is too far for me to easily cross.

I screw up my eyes and think hard. What are some facts that I know for sure? I'm standing on a mountainside and in a stream. Water follows the path of least resistance. And, as District 2 lies on the east side of the Great Divide, I know that it will eventually be flowing east towards the Southern Sea. The sun tells me it's about noon now. A fat lot of help that gives me in determining direction. Panic is starting to creep into my head. I need to make an informed decision, and I don't know what to do at all.

In the back of my mind, a memory flickers and then dies, like an ember in a fire. But it's enough that I see my father's laughing face and hear his voice in my ear. "Remember, my little Clover, the Capitol is always predictable. Their enemies came from the North. Their fear is the North. Their fear is adventure. They will always be content to watch it as long as they never have to live it."

I'm enraged that my father would have to come up at this moment, but it turns out he has actually helped me for once. I repress my bitterness into my chest, knowing that I need to keep on a straight head if I want to get out of this thing alive. I know that the northern slope will lead me straight.

Although I wish that I could have kept the chalk that I lost in my backpack, I'm relieved that I grabbed the rope. This climb would be completely impossible with it. I strap myself in and then lasso the highest crag I can reach with it. There are very few decent handholds that I can grip without slipping or slicing my hand open. I'm getting away with using tiny cracks and crevices, and slip several times, saved only by the sturdy rope. Once I reach the first crag, I release the rope and then toss it to the next highest rock. My progress is painfully slow, even though I am taking very dangerous risks. Once, I nearly grab a rattler, asleep upon a warm rock. It wouldn't have even attempted to warn me of its presence before striking.

When I finally reach the top, my arms and legs are shaking and my rope is completely destroyed from the sharp edges of the rocks to which I've attached it. I have incredible strength from the Academy, but that climb was purely muscle. Something in the back of my mind wonders if Isis could have done it better, but I dismiss the thought immediately. I have more nerve than she does, and I can make a handhold out of anything. She would have taken far more time on safety precautions.

The forest that I find myself in is foreboding. It's nothing like I've ever experienced before and I'm getting anxious. I feel as if there's a monster around every tree. I draw a knife from my vest and move forward. Nothing whatsoever jumps out at me. What unnerves me most is the silence. There are no birds. There are no bugs. It doesn't even sound as if there's wind.

Then I see it in front of me. There's a giant platform that rises high enough above my head that I can't see anything. Something is on top of it. Something I know I'm not going to like.

There's something else I don't like. Isis's head appears at the top of a makeshift ladder on the other side of the platform. She's wearing a victorious little smile on her face, like she knows she's beaten me.

I shrink back into the shadow of the trees. She hasn't seen me yet, so I still have a small advantage. I don't have time to come up with an elaborate plan, But I'm very good at thinking on my toes. In fact most of my elaborate plans end up failing in the long run. _Remember what Isodele told you, Clove_, I remind myself. _Ignore the prize. Get Isis._

Nearby I spot a tree with wide and broad limbs that almost touch the ground. It's an easy climb, and the branches hang close to the platform. That is exactly what I need. I soundlessly climb up the tree to a place where I can witness the events going on in the open. Isis is standing on one side of the platform, brandishing a spiked mace. Her weapon of choice. On the other side is the biggest wild cat I've ever seen. Its about the size of a Grizzly Bear and looks like it hasn't eaten in several days. There's a mad look in its eyes as it tries to determine the most pleasurable way to kill the human in front of it.

I look closely at the forest floor directly beneath the platform. The ground has definitely been tampered with. The workmanship is excellent, so it must have taken her quite some time to set them up. It took her much less time to get down the mountain than it took for me to get up it. My guess is that the Trainers gave her skis and a one way ticket straight down the hill, completely free of ravenous Capitol muttations, treacherous rivers and a climb out of a canyon.

Her strategy must be to lure or to push the beast off of the platform into one of her snares. The goal, I suppose would be to capture him and not to kill him. Taming didn't necessarily mean domesticating it. And there's really no way in an hour for any person to turn a rabid mountain lion into a lap cat.

I watch at Isis approaches with her mace. She bats at it and it twists and turns away from her. They are both squaring up for a good fight. A crazy idea pops into my head. I shimmy out until I'm positioned on the branch that hangs about eight feet above the platform. I need to wait for just the right moment. I need just the right moment…

Isis bats the animal back and forth on the platform until the cat is right under my branch. Adrenaline is making it impossible to hear anything over my own heartbeat as I fling myself into the open air and land square on the creature's back.

Isis is in complete shock as she stares at me on tops of the Mountain Lion. The cat is screaming in fury. It can't see me, but it knows something has got it. The only thing it sees is a shell-shocked Isis standing with her mace completely useless at her side. It charges before she's ready and completely knocks the weapon out of her hand. The mace skids off the platform and I hear it spring one of the traps. It's claws swipe her arm and blood pours out of her wound. She staggers back in pain.

I have to readjust my grip on the monster's neck to stay upright. Unfortunately, this backfires on me because it recognizes that Isis is not the threat. Isis just dodges out of the way as the cat rolls forward to dislodge me. I feel my wrist crack as it's flattened under the weight of the cat, but I hold on. Enraged it rolls again, but I manage to avoid having any more of my limbs crushed. _One more…_ I beg silently. To infuriate it, I jam my heels into its side like I would to a horse. It works because the monster leans in to roll once more.

I bail just in the nick of time as it tumbles off the edge of the enclosure into one of Isis's traps. It screams as it's penned by ropes and metal snares. It stares up at me in fury as if it would love to sink it's fangs into my neck. I smile down at it. One problem down one more to –

A blow hits me on the right side of my head and I crumple dangerously near the edge. Speak of the devil.

"I told you not to get in my way," says Isis as she leers over me. "And now you're going to pay for it."

"Not if I can help it," I reply as I kick her feet out from underneath her. She has the definite advantage because I'm injured and exhausted from fighting my way uphill to reach this point. She's also a lot bigger than me. I scramble up to regain my bearings, but she's up too, and she slams into my torso, and I'm on the ground again. Her large stature will beat me every time if we continue to fight this way.

"You thought you could beat me, did you?" she practically screams, "You thought honestly that you would be a better tribute that I would? That you could work better in a team with Cato than I can? If you did, you're a fool. Cato and I were _raised_ to go to the games together. We're perfect for each other."

I really don't give a damn about Cato. I don't give a damn about who I go to the games with as long as I get there. Period. I'm not a great people person, but I can use them to my advantage. The weird camaraderie between Isis and Cato always unnerved me. I never understood it. Did they want to kill each other or... what? It doesn't matter to me.

But apparently it matters to her. I prop myself up on my good arm and grin at her. "Afraid you have competition?" I leer at her. "You know Cato only wants the best."

"_I'm the_ _best_!" she hisses, angrily, and brings her foot down on my nose.

"Afraid that he might actually work better with me? That we might have a better chance of survival than you two would?"

I can tell from the look in her eyes that this is exactly what she's afraid of. I actually scare her. I almost laugh. This situation is giving me power. I may be the underdog right now but I do have the one advantage left. Her anger.

"I have more nerves than you," I taunt smoothly, "I'm crueler. You don't have what it takes. Cato would never want you."

Her face flushes in anger, but she can't think of anything to say. She steps in to make a final blow to knock me out, but I roll away from under her. The momentum of her fury unbalances her and in one quick moment I'm on top of her, using my feet to pin her arms to the round. Her head is hanging dangerously over the face of the platform to where the mountain lion is still screaming and flailing around in her trap.

A rush of complete maniacal power rushes over me. Isis's life is completely in my hands. She's at my mercy. She can't move. I have the power to spare her life or I could easily send her into the jaws of impending death. Most of my mind is inclined towards feeding the kitty. Her eyes flicker for one moment and I see fear there, which only increases that urge.

But in the back of my mind a voice is reminding me that I need to act rationally right now. This is a fellow student. There will plenty of time to exert my power in the actual arena. I can play with my prey there. Not here. This is not the Hunger Games. It is only an event to showcase my own strength and power. The two sides of me struggle for a few moments before they decide to compromise.

I reach into my belt and pull out the smallest, sharpest blade that I've packed. Leaning down by her ear, I whisper, "A little something to remember me by."

The terror in her eyes speak volumes.

A buzzer sounds in the background to signify the end of our hour, but I'm done by then. Isis is moaning in pain and clutching her left arm, which is dripping with blood. Deep in her forearm, my name will be forever carved. Just a reminder that I will never be defeated. Not by her. Not by anyone.


	4. Meetings

**Sorry for the long delay! Writing this chapter was like trying to swim through lava . Literally. Imagine me staring at the screen and then banging my head against the keyboard shouting, "Cato, why do you hate me? Why must this be such a crappy chapter? WHYYYY?" That's as close to the truth as I can get. Hence, the long wait.**

**I'm not too pleased with it, but it was necessary to set a little bit of background for Cato. And Clove, too, I guess. Let me know what you think. Hopefully it will pick up soon. I can't wait for the arena.**

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The door to my room in the Justice Building slams open. "You have three minutes," the peacekeeper informs us before shutting me in with a fuming Isis. Her face is blotchy and her eyes are swollen. My guess is that she threw a royal temper tantrum after the judges had declared Clove the champion of the challenge and therefore the District 2 tribute.

Isis huffs over to the sofa next to me. "That girl is a monster, I swear. Stay as far away from her as you can."

Fat chance. Anyone her size who can take on Isis and carve their name into her arm, I definitely want on my team. "That's not likely now, as she's my district partner." I grin. "Why? Did she get under your skin?"

"That is not funny, Cato." She shows me her arms, which are bandaged tightly. One arm was mauled by a wild cat. Arguably, so was the other. "There's seriously something wrong with her. I mean, what kind of person would do that?"

"Yeah, like you wouldn't have torn her apart if you had the chance." I saw the murderous look in her face when Clove challenged her. My guess is that if the roles had been reversed, Clove would be long gone by now. "Personally, I think she displayed a lot of self-control."

Her eyes glinted angrily at me. "Listen, I'm only trying to help you survive."

"Survive?" I let out a hearty laugh. The idea of Isis trying to help me survive was absurd. "We've always been totally real with each other, Isis. You just want to see her die at my hands because she beat you. But don't try to pass it off as if you care about –"

The rest of my sentence is cut off because Isis has an iron grip around my neck and is kissing me. A thousand alarms go off in my head at once, all of them hardwired by my parents. They tell me to run. To escape. Nothing is to distract me from training. Nothing can distract me from winning. I must not be weak.

I flash back to all of our training sessions together. The way her body moved with such precision to kill. The flash in her eyes as she parried the blows of my sword. I remembered our proximity while studying books written on anatomy. How animated she got whenever she talked about pinpointing the points of weakness on the human body when finding the best place to strike a deathblow.

In this moment, I forget everything I've ever been taught about conduct, because it feels so good to have her in my arms, our toned bodies against pressed against each other. I swear I can feel every curve of her body and it fits perfectly with mine. I tangle one hand in her silky hair, and yank her closer to me, my other hand resting in the small of her back. The kiss is intoxicating but there's no spark. I know it must be there, deeper. I want more.

But Isis pulls back. Her eyes are as dark and disheveled as her hair. She is panting, but her eyes search my face hungrily, as if hoping if I would pull her back in.

But now that the connection is broken, the ecstasy that fogged my brain has dissipated. It's replaced by a sinking horror and anger. My face drops and I draw back to my corner of the sofa. "What the _hell_ was that?"

"I do care," she responds softly.

"What?"

"You said I didn't care," Isis says, massaging her head vaguely where I had tugged at her hair. "It's been coming on for a while now, but as partners, I couldn't… and we've always been so competitive, so I thought I'd leave it be…" My frown is obviously not encouraging because she looks worried. She sounds less composed than usual so she takes a short breath before continuing. "But now – you win this year and I win next year… We'd both be alive."

"Obviously," I point out coldly. "Losers aren't really my type."

I can tell she's stung because she draws back from me. "What happened today –"

"- proves that you do not have what it takes," I finish for her. "It proves I'm better than you are."

"No it doesn't!" I can tell I've struck a nerve. If I know one thing about Isis, I know that she cannot stand coming in second. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, "I really think that we should just put the past behind us."

"Alright," I say, rising. I can't think straight with her staring at me like this. I need to recompose myself. That kiss was never supposed to happen. Especially right before the games. I need my head on perfectly straight. "So I go to the games this year and win. I kill Clove, or I kill whoever kills her. Because she beat you and I beat her that would mean that I beat you. Fair enough? "

"That's not the point. Cato, we've outgrown this competition."

"Say it, Isis. I will put the past behind me as soon as you admit that I'm better than you."

Her lips purse and eyes narrow. I can tell that she's having a mental battle with herself. "What's the matter?" I taunt, "Cat got your tongue as well as your arm?"

"Fine!" She shouts, "If that's what it takes to convince you, then fine! _You're better than me_. Is that what you want? To feel brave and strong and manlier than me?"

I look at the girl sitting in front of me, all bandaged and battered. The look on her face is desperate, waiting for me to respond. Her chestnut hair flutters down around her long face. Her body, which felt so perfect against mine, shakes a little. She's beautiful in every way that I've ever known. And she has eyes only for me.

But I want nothing to do with her. "You've given up all your ambition, everything you've ever lived for, to gain my approval." I retreat back to my couch and leer at her. "You're weak."

She draws back, stung. "Loving someone is not weakness."

"It is if it means giving up yourself."

Isis stares at me, dumbfounded. She can't decide if she's hurt or angry. The door slamming open interrupts the silence. My peacekeeper is back to usher Isis out of the room. I bow her out like a gentleman, but she can tell I'm still mocking her. Slowly she rises and makes her way out of the room. Just before she leaves she turns back to me. "I still hope you win, Cato. I know you will if stay away from Clove."

"Thanks for the advice."

Before I have time to compose myself and think about what just happened, a very strange collection of people burst through the door. They have animal skin, literally. And I'm pretty sure I see some feathers as well. One of the females squeals and runs over to me. "Who was that _girl_ leaving?"

"Pretty, wasn't she?" said another.

"Everyone's going to be _so_ pleased with how good we make you look."

We meet our prep teams early because celebrations start early in District Two. I have to refrain from kicking at them as they flit about me, fleshing out my features with make up, plucking stray hairs and poking around my body in an entirely intrusive way. I wish I could just swat them away like flies. Nothing about the Hunger Games had really intrigued me except the arena. I already dislike this aspect of being a tribute.

But when I see myself, I can't help but begrudgingly approve of their work. All the worries I had about turning into some tropical bird at their hands melted away. I still look like myself, but I seem to radiate power.

"Perfect!" says a woman who is entirely turquoise. "You look excellent! Just a short meeting with your mentor, and you'll be ready to head off to the train!"

I jerk my head in response. It's the best attempt at politeness or gratitude I can give after feeling so assaulted. But they don't really seem to notice anything. Giggling, they exit the room almost as suddenly as they've entered it. Idiots. Capitol people are ridiculous.

The door opens one final time, and my mentor enters the room. Brutus is big and strong like I am. He won the games about ten years ago, but is not much worse for the wear. His arms still look as thick as a tree trunk. My theory is that his talent had something to do with throwing boulders. He crosses his eyes and throws me a knowing grin. God, I'd love to punch him right now. I know all too well where this is going.

"So…" he says, "_so…_ an interesting turn of events, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah. I never thought Clove would be able to actually get this far."

"Oh, I wasn't referring to Clove," he arches an eyebrow. "But yes, I agree, that is interesting, indeed. Enobaria's not too pleased."

I can't tell if he's talking about Clove beating Isis, or my recent interaction with her. I shrug. "Neither am I, but what's done is done." I pretend he's still talking about the challenge. "I thought you'd be happy. You've always liked Isodore better than Enobaria anyways."

"Oh, believe me, going to the Capitol for three weeks with Isodore will be _very_ enjoyable for me. It does make things trickier when it comes to getting you sponsors."

That's hard for me to believe. Next to me, Clove will look like a shrimp. Anyone in their right mind would be able to see who has more of a chance. But I'm intrigued. "What do you mean?"

Brutus dons his stupid grin again. "Isodore can be very persuasive."

His comment takes a moment to set in. I can't believe this. So the reality is that tributes have very little to do with sponsorship – it's all about the desirability of the mentors. How twisted. These capitol people are playing with _our_ lives here. But they obviously care more about their own pleasure. I shut my eyes and lean back in my chair. "Isn't that illegal?"

"In the Capitol, nothing is off limits."

"Well…" I can't really think of anything, so I take my frustration out by punching a cushion. "You're my mentor! You're supposed to be the one taking care of these things!"

"There is only so much I can do without certain… assets…" He looks at me pensively while chewing on his lip for a moment. "You will have plenty of sponsors, Cato, believe me. People will not fail to recognize your strengths. But if you want to be able to use the Capitol support to the fullest potential, we're going to have to rethink your arena strategy."

"I was going to be allies with Isis. But if you're suggesting that I make enemies with Clove, you've lost your mind. I still want her as my partner."

"Of course you do. The problem is that she doesn't particularly want you." I stare at him dumbfounded for a moment. The thought that someone would reject my help had never occurred to me. I was sure up until this moment that the rest of the tributes would be licking my boots, trying to team up. "I overheard her talking to Isodore just now. It seems to me that you might not be on her graces at the moment."

My mind transports me back to a scene three years ago, when Clove was initiated as an elite. It was a rare thing to have an outsider so young join the upper ranks of the Academy. None of us knew who she was. We had never seen her outside of the training ring. We were all curious about her.

In the Academy, you do not have friends. You have allies. You only team up with those who have something to offer that you do not already have. Alliances dissolve and reform constantly because we have to fight to stay on top. Even one sign of weakness is enough to lose you years of hard-earned respect. Only the strongest make it. Things like feelings have never had a place at the Academy.

Clove was strange, though. She was never interested in teaming up with anyone or fighting her way to the top. She didn't care what people thought of her skill. In her mind, she had already beaten us all. She was odd. She'd challenge the best of the best to training duels, but would never take on a group. Many alliances were interested in recruiting her. She denied the offer every time. Some tried to bully her into joining them. That stopped when the leader of the head gang two years ago "accidentally" lost his hand in a fight with her. Apparently the day before, his cronies attempted to beat her up behind the arena.

The trainers had no idea what to do with her, so they ignored her. Most of the students followed suit. But Isis was still curious. And because she was always my partner, I helped her. One night after Isis and I had finally made it to the top of the alliance ladder, she insisted that we follow Clove back to her home after training.

And that's how I found out the truth about her family.

I never really considered Clove an enemy, but she never expressed any interest in becoming my ally. Because of that, she was dangerous. So I did what I could to make sure she would never be a threat to me. I destroyed her reputation within the Academy. No one would respect the daughter of a disgraced peacekeeper, the scum of the grungiest restaurant in town.

Now every taunt, and harsh accusation I've ever made is pouring through my head like the flash floods that sometimes ravage the mining villages in the mountains. Somewhere in my mind, I had believed that the tributes of our District were always allies. Like they were required. But that didn't make sense. Other Districts didn't do that.

Essentially I had screwed myself.

"My _suggestion_ to you," says Brutus as he watches the horror of reality cover my face, "is to mend whatever it is you've broken in her. Get to know her. Be her friend."

I glare at him in disgust. "If you haven't noticed, I don't have any friends."

"Yes. I understand from Enobaria that friendliness is not your strong suit…"

"Isis and I were _not_ friends!"

"Clearly. The period of your affection was tragically short lived." He laughs at me. "No, Cato, I'm not speaking of the sort of twisted friendship that you had with Isis. I'm talking about something based off of mutual trust. If not friendship, you can at least have a non-hostile companionship with Clove. You're not as different as you think you are, and you will both need each other in the arena."

A bell rings behind the door, signifying the end of our short meeting. It's time for the departure parade. Brutus shakes my hand in a somber way, and I realize that he actually cares for me. I'm sure he'll do everything he can to keep me alive through this.

"Just make sure you're careful."


	5. Competitors

**Ugh. Deadlines. I can't do them. Sorry, team. My updating has been super splotchy. And they will continue to be so. I'm currently living in Houston, but my family is here visiting. I'm sending my laptop home to Colorado with them, so that I have less to bring with me in two months. But don't worry. Whenever I actually hand-write stories, they always turn out better. I'll continue to steal my friend's computers to update. **

**I love you all! Keep reviewing. And being awesome.**

**_Characters and ideas belong to Suzanne Collins. _**

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"You know, you're going to have to smile."

My face remains in a resolute frown.

"I'm serious, Clove. No one appreciates sulking. Especially from someone who made such a huge splash as you did."

I glare resolutely at a small screen over her head that counts down the fifteen seconds until Isodele exits onto the stage. She and Brutus get a brief acknowledgment as our mentors before Cato and I, the new heroes, are brought out for our parade of honor that takes from the Justice Building to the train station. About eight square blocks.

"Clove." She says sternly. I manage to look her in the face. "Smile."

The door opens and Isodele exits into the brightly lit stage.

I'm left alone in our little greenroom to fume to myself. I really had been feeling very victorious about an hour ago. If they had taken me straight from the hovercraft to the stage, I would have been more than capable of pleasing an adoring crowd. The excitement of my victory over Isis, however, was tainted. My first unpleasant encounter occurred with a number Capitol doctors who fixed my mangled wrist. It was extremely painful because they wanted a clean heal by the time I was to enter into the arena in a week or so. Apparently any painkillers available would slow the process considerably. I had also refused to wear the cast they suggested in front of the cameras. It would make me look weak. There is no way that I will appear weak this early in the game. _Especially_ in front of Cato.

If that wasn't enough, I had three aggravating meetings afterwards. My mother. Isodele. And Isis. I can't decide which one of the three was worse.

Definitely Isis.

_Let's go, Clove_, I think. I have to pull myself together. The flashing numbers above the door count down the seconds to my entry.

_3_

_2_

_1_

I'm frozen in the doorway. When the doors open and I am blinded. The air is clean and clear as it's ever been, but I can't catch my breath. It's not the lights on the stage that blinds me. It's the sea of faces. There are not enough lights on the stage to block out the rows and rows of neighbors I don't recognize. People I should know but don't. All too late, I realize that I have stage fright. Shit. It never bothered me before. But then again, the only public attention I've ever received was earlier today. I was far too focused on the task before me to care. I didn't even see the crowds.

But this parade is all about me. I have to look, smile, and flatter the crowds – something I am completely incapable of. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that I'm supposed to do something. But the more I think about it, the blanker my mind gets. It's like I'm coming up against a wall of panic. My legs have forgotten how to work. They scream for me to flee back into the greenroom where I am alone. My eyes are wide like a deer in the headlights.

Cato walks confidently to center stage. He's waving, smiling, and charming the crowd already. But after a few moments, he realizes something is wrong. Maybe it's that I haven't joined him on stage, or it could be the children in the crowd that have started pointing at me and laughing. He turns around and we make eye contact. He takes one step towards my door and raises one hand. "Need me to come get you?" says his expression

It's not much, but it's enough to remind my body that I do have an urgent task before me. "No," my eyes say back, "I do not accept help from anyone. Especially you." Under his challenging gaze, I am able to prance out onto stage. He will not outshine me. I raise my eyes to the crowd and grin. It's terrifying, because they are chanting my name. I know that all of those from the Academy only do so bitterly. They do not want me to win. They want me to fail miserably.

Barnaby Calhoun appears at out of nowhere behind me. He claps us each on the shoulder, while saying something to the crowd. Everything still sounds like it's coming to me through a loudspeaker. I can't distinguish anything. There's an awkward pause when Barnaby steps back. Apparently he said something I didn't catch. Luckily, neither did Cato. We look at him and he grins at the crowd. "Well, go on, you two. Shake hands. You are district partners, after all."

Oh right. This is the first time we've met as the official tributes of District 2. I expect Cato to try and crush my hand as Isis had, but his firm grip showed no hostility – only determination. Weird. I'm very disconcerted, especially as the Cato I know from the Academy would be doing everything in his power to crush my self-confidence. Cato has never tried to share the spotlight with anyone. Not even Isis. Although they were always paired together, he always made it perfectly clear that he was the leader. He was in control.

This new angle makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Especially since he holds on to me a bit longer than normal as we head down the stairs towards our parade car. It's what they call in the capitol a convertible. We only have one in our District. It's only ever used for tributes and District 2 victors. We don't like outsiders using our stuff. Whatever. It works for us.

Unfortunately, the semi-composure that I managed on stage dissolves completely as soon as my foot leaves the last step. It's maybe thirty paces between the stage and the car, but the peacekeepers around aren't doing a great job keeping people away from us. I hear reporters screaming my name. Flashes of a camera leave my vision impaired by little green aftershocks. People are jostling each other pushing in towards me.

The claustrophobic feelings of before return. My legs have decided to stop working again. Where am I? What am I doing? Someone shoves a little recording box in my face like I'm cornered prey. In one swift move, I knock it away and I hear it smash on the ground. I bare my teeth. These blockheads better get the hell away from me or someone's going to die. A tiny reporter with little blond ringlets is unfortunately the first in my line of sight. All I have to do is hit a few pressure points and she'd be out for a week cold.

Two things happen at once. The peacekeepers seem to have smelled trouble, and they push the media back a few steps so that I don't flatten them. My legs move to spring onto the girl, but for some reason, I don't move at all. Someone's got a firm hold of me around the waist. Someone strong enough to root me to the ground. "Keep moving, Garlic. Just ignore them."

I don't even register what's happening. My mind is still functioning in animal mode. The hands move away from my waist. One holds me tight around the forearm in case I feel like jumping at any other eager reporters, and the other moves to the small of my back to push me forward towards the car.

I climb up into the back seat in a state of mild shock. My gaze falls upon the vehicle in front of us where our mentors are sitting. Isodele is trying to catch my eye. She's furious, which I understand. I have made a pretty big train wreck of the first two minutes of my public debut. _Smile,_ she mouths at me. I also take that to mean, "Impress them." I have to be strong.

My gaze shifts to her left where Brutus is sitting. For one split second I swear we make eye contact. But then he seems deeply engaged in a conversation with the driver. But I caught a glint of triumph in his eyes. I'm confused.

And then I realize why. Suddenly the reality of the last twenty seconds comes crashing down over my head. Cato is sitting next to me on the back seat that is too big for one person and much too small for two of us. His hand is still on my back.

"Cato," I hiss into his ear, "get your bloody hand off of my back."

He grins into the crowd without making eye contact. "Ok."

He moves it around my waist instead.

What the hell is wrong with this guy? "Cato –"

He leans in and whispers in my ear, "Shut up, Garlic. Don't worry your pretty little head about anything but making a good impression." He returns his gaze to the crowd, smiling and waving. I notice he seems to be focusing on one spot, specifically. Whatever. Bastard. In my fury, I crush his arm against the seat back behind us. He shows no sign of feeling anything at all.

My attempts to be friendly and please the crowd fail miserably. I appear more pissed than anything, which is very true. From the screens that publicly televise our image rolling through the streets, I'm surprised to see that my small form does not appear weak or dwarfed by Cato's bulk. Maybe it was my expression that did it, or the help of my prep team, but I seem to exuberate power just as much as he does.

The tribute train comes into sight far later than I would have liked it to. When our car finally stops, I disentangle myself from Cato and beeline to the first open door. My throat closes tightly as people reach out to me. In my head, I'm sure that if they catch me, the will drag me down until I am flattened. So I wrench my arms out of their grasp. I grant the crowd one last fleeting look before I disappear into the body of the train, slamming the door behind me.

In the moment it takes my eyes to adjust to the darkness, I realize that I've never been surrounded by this much luxury in my life. The floor and walls are completely carpeted. The ornate lanterns look like they have been carved from solid gold. There's a tiny walkway of polished wood, and I realize that this cart is only meant as an entry cart. Still, I can't do anything but stare at the extravagance around me before the door opens and Cato backs in, still waving at the crowd.

In an instant, I drag him into the cart. I slam him into the opposite wall and use my hand to completely block off his windpipe. I don't care how strong he is, I'm pissed. And he can't do anything to me if he can't breathe. "Don't you say anything," I warn him as I increase pressure on his neck, "You may think that you are God's gift to the women, Cato Hummel, but if you _ever_ touch me again, I will personally make sure that this world is never graced with the presence of your children."

Surprisingly he smiles. And then with equal speed and agility, he uses his foot to trip me. Instead of letting me fall, he grabs a hold of my broken forearm and pins me face-first against the opposite wall. "And, you, Clove Finke," he whispers into my ear, "you may thing that you are completely in control of every situation you get yourself into. But, as you see, I also have a few tricks up my sleeve."

I have to resist the urge to cry out as waves of pain shoot up my arm. But, surprisingly his grip loosens and he lets me slide down to the floor. "Luckily for you, I think that we should be friends."

Cradling my tender arm, I glare up at him. "What gives you the impression that we could ever be friends?"

"Well, I saved your ass just now. I think that counts for something."

He offers me his hand. I stare at a moment before pushing myself off the floor alone. I don't want his help. I certainly do _not_ need his help. His eyes cloud with an emotion I don't recognize, but then the doors open and Barnaby and Brutus stumble inside.

Barnaby seems blissfully unaware that he has just stumbled into a war zone. He jovially walks over to me and clamps a beefy hand onto my shoulder. "Oho!" He chuckles, "Someone's having a bit too much of her brush with fame I see!" I have no idea what he's talking about. "No matter, not matter. It will pass."

The train with an almost imperceptible jerk leaves the station and starts to gain speed.

Standing across from me, Cato exchanges a significant look with Brutus. Their own secret code, I suppose. Barnaby intercepts Cato's expression, and interprets it as an awe of the grandeur around him. "Yes, it is nice isn't it?" It's a bit silly of him, as Cato is used to fancy things. He's a legacy. "The capitol likes to reward her tributes. Just wait until you see the dining room!"

"We're not having dinner until we reach the hospitality house, Calhoun," says Brutus, glaring in contempt at the capitolite, who looks a little crestfallen.

"No matter," he repeats, "We'll be there in only a few short hours. Make sure that you two clean up before then. You'll find whatever you need in your rooms."

He looks like he is going to show us where we're supposed to go, but Brutus stops him. "No need. I'll take them."

"Would you?" says Barnaby; somewhat relieved "I think I'll just drop into the dining cart for a moment. You know. To make sure that they haven't already prepared dinner. We don't make too many stops at the hospitality houses these days." And then before Brutus can say anything, he slips away down the train.

The three of us stand there for a moment before Brutus pushes us down the hallway. "Come. I'll show you where you'll be staying."

Something clicks in my mind. "Where's Isodele?"

Brutus and Cato exchange another significant glance over my head and Brutus smiles. "She's meeting us at the hospitality house."

"What's a hospitality – "

"Come on, Garlic. Did you pay attention to _nothing_ in the Academy but fighting?" says Cato. His tone of voice causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on edge. God, he drives me crazy.

"Am I going to be using history in the arena?" I spit back.

"They're the stops along the way to the Capitol that were used to house victors before the trains were built. They only use them for emergencies now."

"_Or_," says Brutus cutting Cato off with a glare, "to reward the Districts who supported them during the rebellion. And seeing that our District is one of those favored by the Capitol, and that they want all the tributes to arrive on the same day, we are lucky enough to get to use it this year."

I know that they are trying to hide something from me concerning the absence of my mentor, but I doubt that they are going to disclose anything to me. It rubs me the wrong way, but I don't really want to push the issue. I'd much rather hear an explanation from Isodele anyways. "Whatever," I say, as Brutus opens the door to my room.

"Be out by six!" Brutus calls as I slam the door in his face.

It's almost hard for me to be angry now that I've seen my room. If I thought the entry room was nice, my cabin is beautiful. There is satin and velvet everywhere. The windows let in the cool mountain air and the lighting makes everything look purple. I swear that I might have just entered the palace of a queen. The carpeting is an inch thick and it completely masks the sound of my footsteps. The first thing I do is take my boots off and sink ankle deep into it. I've never felt anything so soft in my life. But as soon as I reach my bed I revoke that thought. When I sit down, the comforter and mattress envelop me. I sink down so that only half of my torso is showing. Suddenly, the exhaustion of my day crashes over me. I'm asleep before my head even reaches my pillow.

BANG! BANG! I shoot straight up out of my bed, and reach for my knife. But it's not there. I realize that I'm not in my bed at home. The sun has set and there's only the faint glow of twilight coming through the window.

"Clove, we're here. Let's go!"

It's Brutus. I haven't really had a chance to explore any of my room. "Coming. Give me a second."

I hear an annoyed sigh and then his footsteps leaving the hallway.

Throwing open my closet, I grab the first outfit I see. The pants are completely exotic to me, narrow near the ankle and wide and baggy at the crotch, which makes for prime agility. I put them on and synch the drawstring cord tight around my waist. The shirt is a loose t-shirt, which hangs even more awkwardly off of my thin shoulders, but I don't really care much. I throw a light jacket over it in case it gets colder. It's an extremely comfortable outfit, perfect for the cool mountain air.

"About time!" says Brutus as I run out of my room and meet them on the veranda. Immediately, I catch my breath at the view. I had never been this deep into the mountains before. The hospitality house is smaller than the houses in the Victor's village, but made out of giant logs, much bigger than any of the pines surrounding it. I imagine that they were imported from District 7, where they grow lumber. It has a rustic feel about it, with smoke already rising from the chimney. The only other manmade things in sight are the train and the tracks that disappear around the nearest hill.

Suddenly, the birds surrounding us stop their songs. Out of nowhere, a hovercraft appears. "Ah," says Brutus. "Isodele's right on time as usual."

As quickly as it arrived, the hovercraft vanishes into the distance, towards where I assume is the direction of the capitol. West. Always west. My mentor sweeps the lank hair out of her face as she strides towards us. "Well, business is all taken care of," she says while giving me a smug and somewhat patronizing look. I have no idea what she's trying to communicate to me. Her expression slackens as she looks over my shoulder. "Barnaby!" she says, looking delighted. "What a great honor it is to be working alongside you again!"

Barnaby appears behind my just making it out of the train. He stinks of fish and sweat. There's a leafy green poking out from between two of his teeth. "Isodele!" he replies, kissing her cheek. "We missed you on the train this afternoon. Where were you?"

"Taking care of some business back in Two," she says, nonchalantly. "You know what it is – the life of a celebrity. But I am famished. Will dinner be served soon?" I am once again astounded at how easily Isodele manipulates conversation. Barnaby forgets her late appearance in his enthusiasm for the new subject. In a moment, he is talking about dishes I've never heard of. I can't pronounce them even if I wanted to.

As we're ushered into the house, I can't help but hope that the dining room will have a view as grand as the front porch, but I'm out of luck. There are no windows at all in there. The table is set up bar-style in front of a giant flat screen television. Barnaby takes his place in the middle of the table, which has access to the widest variety of food, leaving two seats on either side of him. I make my way to a seat farthest away from our escort as possible and Isodele follows me. Cato and Brutus take their respective positions as well. "Excellent!" says Barnaby once we're settled. "We can watch the reaping recaps while eating, so that you two can get off to bed. It's going to be a big day tomorrow. We'll finally make it to the capitol!"

The lights dim and everything briefly disappears in darkness before the television springs to life. Seneca Crane, the gamemaker this year is giving a short interview about his role in creating the arena. I grab the nearest platter and pile my plate high with the few things that look edible – fish, some vegetables and a pile of mashed potatoes. Everything else is so brightly dyed that I think they might have been poisoned.

As soon as reruns start, my eyes are immediately fixed on the screen, appraising the tributes based on their appearance and their reactions to their reaping. The tributes from District 1 are both as fit as Cato and I. The boy is definitely outshone by his district partner, who looks like she was born to be on the screen. She has perfect poise in front of the camera and is completely cool and collected. The crowd doesn't bother her at all. I sneer at her image and then whisper to Isodele, "She's all show. How long do you think she's been bleaching her teeth?"

"Don't rule her out," Isodele warns, "You never know about the kids coming from District 1 or 4. If she's got talent, she's got a deadly combination going for her."

I curse a little under my breath. Neither of them are volunteers but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Rarely are there volunteers from District One because they do their reaping different for the Students of the Academy. Somehow, the best and brightest are always the ones drawn. I doubt their training could have prepared the two tributes staring into the camera anymore than ours has prepared us in Two. But my blunder on the stage is going to hurt me. I stare at the girl flirting with the camera, and for the first time, I wish I were pretty. I wish that I could flip my hair and impress the crowd like the girl from One could.

A knot forms in my stomach as their images are suddenly replaced with Cato and me. I wait for the moment when I go mental and start attacking people. But to my surprise, it doesn't happen. Cato barrels to the stage to volunteer, and then the camera cuts directly to the two of us shaking hands and then our profiles glaring out over the crowd. We both look deadly, but the camera focuses mostly on Cato. My stunned look makes Isodele chuckle. "I told you I took care of it," she whispers out of the side of her mouth.

"What about the challenge?" I ask. I have to be angry about something because Isodele must never know that I'm actually in debt to her for saving my ass. That's just how our relationship goes.

"It was cut by the Capitol," she replies, "It looks too suspicious like you might have been _training_ or something beforehand. And you might be a little grateful that I managed to get them to cut most of the shots of you out."

"And how'd you get them to do that?"

"Never you mind," she says with a coy smile that I take to mean she probably had done something very illegal. I'm silent as I return my gaze to the screen. "Listen," Isodele whispers again, as District Three comes on to the screen. There's nothing very impressive about either of them. "Your initial impression is unreadable based on your TV time so far. Your strategy was banking on outshining Cato from the beginning and going from there. But that's not going to work anymore. He's got the edge."

District Four flashes up next, and both the boy and girl look strong. The girl is dark like me, but tall. The boy is younger than her, probably the same age as me, but he has an intimidating air about him. I jot them down in the back of my mind as allies, while trying to avoid Isodele's statement. Things certainly hadn't gone the way I planned.

"Clove," Isodele insists as Five flashes past, "You're going to have to team up with Cato. It's the only way, you're going to win."

"We went through this before," I hiss back, a little too loudly. "I am _not_ going to help that imbecile. He does nothing for me."

"We are going to be able to get you plenty of sponsors, Clove. Probably more than any of the other tributes combined. But that does nothing to help you if you're dead on the first day."

"There's no way that I'm going to get killed the first day."

"Listen, no one in their right mind is going to choose you as an ally over Cato, no matter how well you throw your knives. Based on your sizes, alone, they'll go with him."

"I don't need –"

"What, Clove? You don't need allies? When the tributes from One and Four team up with Cato, you'll be their first target, because you'll be the biggest threat. How are you going to survive without getting the supplies at the Cornucopia? Are you going to make knives out of tree bark?"

I picture myself getting to the Cornucopia, slicing a few throats, grappling over supplies, and then facing five of them. The short boy from Four leering at me, the girl from One with her hair falling perfectly over a shoulder, and Cato with a triumphant smile, cornering me against a wall, and then pulling out his sword…

I breathe hard in frustration. "There must be a way…"

"Yeah," responds Isodele gesturing to the screen, which is showing a boy from District Ten with a crippled foot. "You could team up with the other tributes."

I resist the urge to hit her. It is the ultimate shame in our District – to need the help of those weaker than you. I can use them, but I must never depend on them. Rarely are there any real challenges from the outlying districts. In the last ten years, there haven't been any tributes worthy to be counted as an elite.

As Eleven flashes forward on the screen, I regret sneering at them. "I'll team up with _him_," I tell her. The boy glaring at the camera looks at least twenty-five, even though I know he can only be eighteen. He's at least as big as Cato, although he does look rather upset that he's been reaped. Then again, that could make him even more dangerous in the arena. Rage is dangerous unless you're skilled enough to channel it into your plan. Having him as an ally would definitely help me.

I completely ignore the girl by him. She's tiny. She'll be dead in the first five minutes.

"You can try," she responds, "But you'll have a hard time convincing him when he sees Cato. If the both of them are coming against you…"

"I get it, Isodele." I snap, "I'm dead if I don't team up with Cato. You don't have to tell me any more."

When District Twelve flashes before the screen, my stomach clenches. That's where my father lives now. I'll do everything I can to kill both of them, just to get my message across to him that I haven't forgiven him. I will never forgive him. Their tributes look fair this year, though they don't really catch my interest. At least they look like they've been properly fed, rather than the beanpoles that usually come from there. The girl volunteered for her sister. I'm sure that strikes a few empathetic chords in the Capitol, but that means nothing. These are the people who send 24 kids to die each year. Empathy only goes so far.

The anthem plays one last time and the Capitol emblem flashes on the screen. Then it goes black. "Excellent, excellent!" says Barnaby, clapping his hands. "This is going to be an excellent show this year!"

Brutus and Cato halt the deep conversation they're having on their side of the table to avoid being overheard. The knot in my stomach hardens. Do they already have a plan? I lean over to Isodele, and against my will say, "Ok, fine. You can tell him that I'll do it."

Isodele laughs at me. "Oh no. You can tell him yourself."


	6. Midnight

**Wow. This chapter came so easy to me, even though it's really short. I told you things would be better when I didn't try and write it on my computer! ****At the same time, I thought that we would get further in this chapter than just the Hospitality House. Oh well. We'll be getting to the Capitol soon enough.**

**Thank you to all of you who have read and commented. A special thanks to Vampiric Ninja! Your review was very helpful and it made me feel special. Always a good thing for a writer. Constructive criticism padded with kind words!**

**Another note, I've noticed lately, as I've been re-reading some of my previous chapters that I have several grammatical problems, and I constantly forget what I've already mentioned (or my brain warps certain facts about my characters as I make up more and more about their pasts.) That being said... I'm looking for someone who might want to help me edit. I'd like to read some of your stories first, to make sure that our styles are compatible, but it would help me IMMENSELY to have a trustworthy friend re-reading my work before I post it here and publicly embarrass myself. **

**Just let me know. I'm looking around. Thanks, friends.**

**Keep reading, and happy Hunger Games.**

**[Most] Characters belong to Suzanne Collins. **

* * *

I stare blankly at the dull ceiling, sleepless, in the most luxurious bed I've ever seen, including my house in Victor's Village. It's far too comfortable for me. For weeks, I've been sleeping on the floor, preparing myself for a good night's rest in the arena. Occasionally, my mother would let some of her insane pets loose in the middle of the night, teaching me to be a light sleeper. It was either that or waking up without an arm. Apparently my brilliant preparation has backfired a little bit. The safety and comfort of my room disturbs me. As does the silence. I bought myself a one-way ticket to the arena without any hope of rest.

Groaning, I push myself up out of my bed. Staring at the ceiling will not help, so I decide to step outside. Perhaps the mountain air will help clear my head. And then I might sleep.

Peacekeepers are posted outside of my door. They look unsurprised to see me up so late and they make no move to try and stop me. After all, most of them grew up in District 2 as well. Maybe they've escorted enough tributes to the Capitol to be used to these nightly appearances. Why else would they be stationed at my door? I can feel their watchful eyes follow me down the hallway. I have the distinct feeling in the pit of my stomach that some of them feel sorry for me.

Although the Hospitality House is furnished like a palace, it is surprisingly small. There are the two tribute rooms, side by side, the mentor's room across the hall, the dining room, kitchen, and living room. That's all. Even the living space can only fit a small amount of guests. The peacekeepers almost blend in with all the furniture, blocking the only exit, which leads back to the train.

The back wall of the living room is covered in windows, and a glass door. During the day, it provides a magnificent view of the valley. At night, it reflects the dim light of the house. I can see my haggard reflection staring back at me as I walk to the glass door and push it open.

The porch is a perfect representation of the house, as well. The wood is made of hard mahogany - a wood foreign to District 2 and very expensive - but is tiny. I can only take about three steps in any direction before I'm at the edge. Looking over the banister, my heart drops. The distance from the porch to the ground is at least fifty feet. It looks like they strategically built the house on a cliff so that the only exit possible would be through the front door to the train. Unless, of course, you wanted to die on the pointed boulders beneath you.

I lift my eyes from the shocking height of the porch, and my stomach immediately stops lurching. It's not that I'm afraid of heights - I was only surprised. The view that reaches my eyes is breathtaking, even in the dark. There is no moon. The giant mountains harshly carve blackness into the stars above. It is the only way to distinguish land from sky. Everything is silent and immovable. Even the lake that reflects the stars is completely still, looking like a portal into another universe.

I've never seen so many stars before. The smog that comes from the Nut generally covers them at night. Not that I've cared. Before tonight, I've never gone outside to look at them. I'm not really one for star gazing. I know that I should feel somewhat moved by the beauty of what's before me, but I can't. The part of me that recognizes beauty only seems to awaken when my inner monster does. Blood, gore and cruelty. That is true beauty. An art that must be refined and guarded well.

The mountains reassure me. The cruelty of their peaks against the night reminds me of who I am. Nothing can be blacker than the night. But these mountains are. The cold night air hurts my lungs when I inhale too deeply. It is as if I am breathing in the mountains, themselves. The confidence in the air is palpable. It's exhilarating. I can do anything. I can do everything. Nothing is impossible for me. The power of the universe sits incased in my lungs along with the cruel mountains. When I release that power, I will never be stopped.

A small disturbance behind me interrupts my thoughts. I don't turn because I know who it is.

A peacekeeper speaks in a low voice I cannot hear, but the answer is clear. "Please," says an irritable voice. It's not a plea at all. "I have just as much right as anyone to get some fresh air during the night. It's not as if I'm going to push him off the porch."

The Peacekeeper who blocks her way sounds rather uncomfortable. He mumbles something about how we are not supposed to hurt each other before we get to the arena. I grin at the night. As if.

"Let her come," I say without turning around. "I'll take care not to let her hurt herself."

There's a short silence before the man relents. I hear Clove slam the door behind her, blocking the man inside. "I'd thank you," she says, joining me over the banister, "but I prefer to fight my own battles."

"Every conversation is a battle for you, Clove. You have enough fighting in one day to last the average person a lifetime. Just relax. It's probably one in the morning."

"One thirty," she says under her breath.

And then she is quiet.

The silence stretches taunt between us. I can feel my blood pressure racing through my ears in frustration. She is ruining the aura of peace and power. The dark mountains were meant for me, not her. Peacekeepers keep peering out the living room windows, making sure that we don't strangle each other. I know they're only their best to get us to the Capitol safely. If something happens, their necks are on the line. Yet, I feel trapped by their glances, as if I were being stared at like a circus animal. A wave of annoyance racks my body. If only Clove hadn't come out and ruined everything, I might have been able to get some rest.

But I know I must not fight with her. I need to use her. I remind myself of the situation this morning. If I could stay cool enough to save her public reputation during the District Parade, I was certainly strong enough to endure her silence. I must make friends with her, says Brutus. Friends. I don't know what that means.

A friend would step in to save her from public disgrace, would he not? Somehow, I think that was different. I had fun saving Clove this morning. It was exhilarating, sitting next to her on the top of our perch, with my hand around her waist. A friend would do that because he didn't want to watch her make a fool of herself. I did it because I had the power to make the decision myself. If I had let her, she would have attacked a Capitolite and got herself killed. I had the power to let her.

But I hadn't.

Clove was indebted to me.

To me, this qualifies as friendship. But I doubt that Clove sees it this way. The waves of dislike wafting from her silence are much colder than the tundra wind blowing from those mountains onto my face. I suddenly realize that her ideas of cruelty and beauty are foreign to me. I cannot recognize them, which makes me anxious. For the ones I cannot predict, I cannot control.

I shake my head slightly. I am losing my grip - all I have to do is to get her to trust me. Talking is probably the best way to start. "So-" I say, awkwardly, taking another breath of the powerful air. It calms me and gives me confidence. "You couldn't sleep either?"

She turns her head towards me. In the light of the living room, I can see only half of her face, and half of her expression. "No," she responds cooly. "I heard you get up, and I was just following you. I considered going into your room earlier, but it wasn't an appealing option."

The sting of her comment was lost to me in the irony of the moment. I cannot for the life of me picture Clove ever sneaking into a boy's room. At the Academy, anyone caught sneaking into another dormitory was severely punished. I've seen Clove inflict the trainer's wrath on these unfortunates enough times that to picture the roles reversed was preposterous. I chuckle to myself. "I'm flattered, Garlic. What could possibly induce you to wait up all night to see me? There was only a slight possibility that I would leave my room until morning."

"I knew you'd come," she says, clearly agitated that her insult hadn't enraged me at all. Of course, it would only have been effective if I was interested in the first place. "I... _we_ needed to talk somewhere we won't be overheard, and apparently that is impossible once we've reached the Capitol." The half of her face I can see reads disgust and anger. I can tell she is not enjoying this conversation at all, which means good things for me. If Clove is unhappy I am generally in control of a situation.

I say nothing, but raise my eyebrows. I will not rush a moment where Clove Finke comes to me with her hat in her hands, begging me to let her join my team.

"I've talked to Isodele, and I've decided... I figured that I will let you join my alliance."

Her words stun me almost as much as a good clubbing to the head. "Let me - _your_ alliance?" She completely infuriates me, this girl does. Who does she think she is, little bitch? All five feet, four inches of her. I could squash her with my thumb. The protective armor of self control I've been constructing for the last ten minutes completely disintegrates. Little spots of red are invading my vision. So this is what rage feels like.

"Yes," she responds calmly. "I think we both know that I have the sponsors, so it's _my_ alliance."

"You won't need sponsors if you're dead," I growl under my breath. I'm pretty sure she didn't hear me at all.

"Please, Hummel," she says, rolling her eyes, sardonically, "I know it's not ideal. It's not like I wanted it anyways. But it will help you."

I'm about ready to punt the girl in front of me off the porch into the lake. She has offended, insulted, and ignored me in every way possible. A few deep breaths calm me and then a slow smile spreads over my face. "And what if I say no?"

Her breath stops for a moment, as if this was a condition she had never considered. "You won't. You need the support I can give you."

"No." I say, firmly.

"What?"

"I'm not joining any alliance that you've arranged in your mind."

I'm satisfied to see a flicker of fear and confusion cloud her expression before it's enveloped by a rage equal to my own. She closes the small gap between us until she has her freckled nose inches from my own. "Back down, Cato. You need my support."

I shrug. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But I don't need it half as much as you need mine." Clove's eyes hold mine, indignantly for a moment before slipping to the floor. She knows I'm right. It fuels my fire. "You may get sponsors, but they won't help you much if the other Students come to me. And who would want you, really? I'm much bigger, much stronger," I tip her chin up roughly, so that I can see the defeat in her eyes, "and much better than you. Who would want you when they have me?"

I see that my words have cut deep. Somewhere in her eyes, I have hit a nerve, but the tears don't come. Neither does the defeat I expected. I drop my hand from her face and lean casually against the banister. "Now," I say, returning to a kinder tone, "once you get you head on straight, swollow your pride, and if you ask kindly, I will gladly accept you into _my_ alliance."

Her eyes do not leave mine. She knows all I've said is truth. Her eyes tell me that. But they also tell me that I cannot tame her. She will never let me win. "You can take your alliance with you to hell," she whispers.

She spits in my face and disappears silently back into the Hospitality House.

I'm so stunned, I don't know what to do. I wipe the saliva out of my eyes and off of my face. No one in their right mind would ever spit on me. But Clove has a different mind. That mind is invaluable to me. I will get it. Staring at the spit, I laugh and laugh.

It sounds maniacal, even to me.

I can't remember going to bed.


End file.
